rse. Val, I think sometimes
it is not far off now."

Very far off he knew it could not be. But he spoke of hope still: it was
in his nature to do so. In the depths of his heart, so hidden from the
world, there seemed to be hope for the whole living creation, himself
excepted.

"How is your wife to-day?"

"Quite well. She and Edward are out with the ponies and carriage."

"She never comes to see me."

"She does not go to see anyone. Though well, she's not very strong yet."

"But she's young, and will grow strong. I shall only grow weaker. I am
brave to-day; but you should have seen me last night. So prostrate! I
almost doubted whether I should rise from my bed again. I do not think
you will have to come here many more times."

"Oh, Mrs. Ashton!"

"A little sooner or a little later, what does it matter, I try to ask
myself; but parting is parting, and my heart aches sometimes. One of my
aches will be leaving you."

"A very minor one then," he said, with deprecation; but tears shone in
his dark blue eyes.

"Not a minor one. I have loved you as a son. I never loved you more,
Percival, than when that letter of yours came to me at Cannes."

It was the first time she had alluded to it: the letter written the
evening of his marriage. Val's face turned red, for his perfidy rose up
before him in its full extent of shame.

"I don't care to speak of that," he whispered. "If you only knew what my
humiliation has been!"

"Not of that, no; I don't know why I mentioned it. But I want you to
speak of something else, Val. Over and over again has it been on my lips
to ask it. What secret trouble is weighing you down?"

A far greater change, than the one called up by recollection and its
shame, came over his face now. He did not speak; and Mrs. Ashton
continued. She held his hands as he bent towards her.

"I have seen it all along. At first--I don't mind confessing it--I took
it for granted that you were on bad terms with yourself on account of the
past. I feared there was something wrong between you and your wife, and
that you were regretting Anne. But I soon put that idea from me, to
replace it with a graver one."

"What graver one?" he asked.

"Nay, I know not. I want you to tell me. Will you do so?"

He shook his head with an unmistakable gesture, unconsciously pressing
her hands to pain.

"Why not?"

"You have just said I am dear to you," he whispered; "I believe I am so."

"As dear, almost, as my own child